


Golden and Brilliant Like the Moon

by CharacterDevelopment



Series: Secrets and Poetry [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bedrooms, College, Future Fic, M/M, Mornings, POV Derek, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharacterDevelopment/pseuds/CharacterDevelopment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are secrets that Derek keeps.</p>
<p>Things like <em>I killed my whole family</em> or <em>I haven’t had sex before you in seven years</em> or <em>somewhere along the line, I think I fell in love with you</em>. And he whispers them into Stiles’s ear like sweet nothings when his heart beat is slow in sleep and his eyelids flutter.</p>
<p> <br/>But they’re not nothing. They’re everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden and Brilliant Like the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> And the universe said, "Let there be Derek Hale feelings." And so it was done.

 

There are secrets that Derek keeps.

Things like _I killed my whole family_ or _I haven’t had sex before you in seven years_ or _somewhere along the line, I think I fell in love with you_. And he whispers them into Stiles’s ear like sweet nothings when his heart beat is slow in sleep and his eyelids flutter.

But they’re not nothing. They’re everything.

 

They’re the things he can’t tell. So he tells him other things.

Like the way he likes it when Stiles slips into him like a sinking anchor, or the way his forearms brace themselves in a bridge above his head, the way he shakes when he loses control. He likes these things, they’re easy to say, easy to trace his fingers down the skin of Stiles’s pale underarms, to bite and bruise, leave fingernail marks like tiny half moons, red and pink.

Derek doesn’t like to talk—words don’t come out right for him, they get tangled together on his tongue, spew out like challenges rather than declarations. But sometimes he likes to talk with his body. It’s strong, it heals; it’s easy to protect himself and those around him—mostly Stiles, though. It’s always Stiles.

A couple words for each movement. An _Always, always you,_ when he drags his fingers down Stiles’s back. A _No one else,_ when he digs them in at the base. It's a repeated process, a constant thrum of words inside his head like a broken record, squeezing Stiles tight when he grinds to a stop inside him, when his arms shake, when he sighs. An _Only you,_ when Derek crumbles to ash beneath him and finally lets go.

 

If someone asked, Derek could pinpoint the exact time and date they started sleeping together. March 9, 2013, Stiles’s senior year, daylight’s savings time. He could tell someone that Stiles had had on a dark Henley and matching bruises under his eyes, could tell someone that he had been so tired, so, so very tired, that he’d told Derek, “I’m afraid if I go, I won’t ever come back.” Derek could tell someone that he’d opened himself up to let Stiles in just enough to ensure that when he came back from college, he would still be coming home.

Someone hasn’t asked, but Derek plays it over in his head daily just in case.

 

Sometimes Derek wonders if Stiles knew exactly how much the word _possessive_ applied to him, if he'd get scared, maybe run away. Sometimes Derek feels guilty for wanting the things he does, for being selfish, and broken. Because Derek is damaged. It's the truth, nothing less. A parcel left in the rain, taken apart by weather and time. Stiles calls him beautiful. Derek calls him stupid.

Stiles reminds him of a French poem he can't pronounce the name of. A poem about a boy with pale skin and fingers that dance around and around under the moon. He keeps it folded up, crinkled in his wallet. Smooths it out on a jean covered thigh, reads it three times a day. Taps his fingers against the worn paper and wonders if any of it matters.

Derek likes to mouth the words into Stiles's skin, to write out each line with his tongue, to punctuate each stanza's end with his teeth. He wonders if Stiles has ever noticed a pattern to his ministrations. He wonders if Stiles knows. A part of him wants him to, wants him to know everything. Wants to open himself up and let Stiles crawl inside, make a home inside his chest right next to his heart. Another part of him wonders if he already has.

Stiles is loud, fumbling, mole-spotted, and warm. The idea that he could have slipped underneath Derek’s skin like a shadow is almost inconceivable. Derek would have noticed, he would have—Stiles laughs with his whole body, entangles his own limbs, he couldn’t have—he shouldn’t have—

Stiles is beautiful. Derek is stupid.

 

Mornings are Derek’s favorite. Mornings in his bed with tangled sheets and a warm body to wrap around. In the mornings, light filters through the cracks of Derek’s bedroom walls, dust rises up and floats in the air and everything is soft. The bed, the sheets, Stiles’s skin.

Stiles has nice skin. It’s warm, smells like home. Derek isn’t sure when that happened, when home stopped smelling like ash and blackened beams and loneliness. To say he’s happy would most likely be an overstatement. Derek hasn’t been happy in a very long time. But he smiles now, hides his face in Stiles’s neck and shakes with laughter when Stiles tells him something particularly stupid or funny.

In the mornings, Derek likes to rest his head on Stiles’s chest, count the moles there with the tips of his fingers. And Stiles will card his hand through Derek’s hair almost absently, relating stories with ridiculous amounts of imagery and sexual innuendo. Stiles likes to talk, he’s good at it, smart and quick witted. Sometimes he tells Derek he thinks about writing, putting his thoughts to paper. And Derek will hum his approval, press a kiss to Stiles’s sternum, to his left pectoral, to the small scar by his nipple and hope that it’s enough, hope he’s enough.

 

Stiles will leave in the fall, will go off to school and find himself. And Derek will be here in his bed, he’ll lie on the left side, pretend that’s how he’s always slept. And it will mean something. Will mean everything. And he will wait, wait for him to come back.

In four and a half months, Stiles will pack his bags and his band posters and get in his jeep and drive away. He’ll decorate his dorm walls with posters and shake hands with his roommates and shed the skin that grew in his time in Beacon Hills. He’ll empty his luggage and at the bottom of his bright red suitcase, underneath third editions of DC comics, he’ll find a crumpled up sheet of paper with five lines in French. And he’ll smile because he’ll get it. Because Stiles gets everything. It’s why Derek fell in love with him.

 

Stiles will come home in the summer and climb a spiral staircase and fall back into bed. And Derek will draw each letter and each accent into his skin and he’ll most likely cry.

And when the morning is over and post-coital has no more meaning, Derek will open his mouth and say, “I killed my whole family.” And "I haven’t had sex before you in seven years.” And “somewhere along the line, I think I fell in love with you.”

And they won’t be sweet nothings, because they were never sweet nothings and Derek won’t have any more secrets to keep.

 

_Votre voix chante_

_Vous me rappelez d'une mélodie_

_Les os de vos doigts dansent sous la lune_

_Et votre peau est la couleur d'albâtre_

_D’or et brillant comme la lune_

  

 

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> I wish this was longer, I wish I could write 10k of Derek Hale feelings' porn and it not feel winded or overdone. I wish someone would enjoy that. Would someone enjoy that?
> 
> Sigh.
> 
> This ship has swallowed me whole.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://www.characterdevelopmentwrites.tumblr.com)


End file.
